


cupio, careo

by 0plus2equals1



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Biting, Other, gender neutral hunter - Freeform, the hunter pines in strange ways, time for vermin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:47:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25723075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0plus2equals1/pseuds/0plus2equals1
Summary: The hunter is having a hard time adjusting to being the new Leader of the League.
Relationships: The Hunter/Valtr Leader of the League
Comments: 12
Kudos: 46





	cupio, careo

His gloves wrapped tightly around the handle of his staff as he smacked the tip of it against the cobbled stone beneath him, using the impact to punctuate his speech. At the moment, his words were distant, muffled things to the ears of the blood-addled hunter. Valtr was as steady a presence as one could find in the writhing night, though that wasn’t much of an accolade; he spoke with a strange and fervent obsessiveness, but the hunter tried to listen. Too much time out under the moon had them drifting. The hunter had hoped that a visit with the Master of the League might anchor them back to reality, but their thoughts still felt rough and scattered.

They watched him closely as he spoke. His navy blue uniform was studded up with golden buttons, cut by a thick, embellished belt, and framed by a hip-length cape. The crisp formality of the getup belied the simple brutality of the dented iron sheet fashioned into his helm. The hunter stared at the single eyehole punched through the metal as if one of the detestable vermin might come crawling out at any moment.

They realized much too late that Valtr had said something short and declarative, and then had said it again, and now he was waiting expectantly for them to reply.

They cleared their throat. “Pardon?”

The helm tilted but Valtr remained silent.

“My apologies,” the hunter said quickly. “My thoughts are not so much elsewhere as they are nowhere. If you would repeat what you said—”

“You still have the eyes of a hunter,” Valtr interrupted. “Not the shattered sight of one succumbed to beasthood. You are still unbroken, my Confederate. But I can see the strain. I’ve seen it before in many hunters.” The helm inclined curtly. “The mission may grip your spirit yet, but even the most bloodthirsty can use a respite to cleanse the palate. Why not take a minute or two to yourself? Rest here.”

The hunter glanced about the dim interior of the building. There was scattered hay, thick cobwebs, dusty offal left behind by crushed vermin, and a long-forgotten corpse propped against the central supporting column of the room.

“I don’t sleep much anymore,” the hunter replied honestly. They couldn’t, not when the urge to hunt burned like acid in their arteries. That, and any other venture into unconsciousness tended to send them to the Dream.

“Then sit with me,” Valtr insisted, and as he took long strides towards the center of the room the hunter went rigid with surprise. They had nearly viewed the man as a part of the place, a structure just as integral to the stability of the building as the central beam.

Valtr took a seat upon the lip of the stone base and patted one grimy white glove against the space at his side. “I can see the night heavy on your shoulders,” he stated. “And I can _easily_ see that you need respite.”

A vicious and nagging interior voice, the hungry voice of the hunt, wondered how well the man would see— how well he would defend himself— if that hole in the helm was blocked. Probably perfectly, the hunter self-chastised, and they wondered as they always did at the sight-beyond-sight intuition that those that claimed Yharnam as a home seemed to develop.

“Do tell me if your stomach is about to turn,” Valtr said as they wavered where they stood. “You’re pale as parchment.”

“I’m not ill,” they replied. “Not in that sense.”

“Then sit,” Valtr repeated, and he clasped his hands over the handle of his staff.

The hunter took a deep breath and sat at his side.

“There you are,” Valtr praised. “See? You sat down and the rotted world still turns. Soon you’ll renew your vigour and return to crushing vermin with impunity. But for now,” he said, and the hunter went still once more when his hand gripped at their shoulder, the touch imparting supportive camaraderie. “Take a deep breath. Fill your lungs, feel the brightness of pure life swell within you— and then _out_ ,” he added with a bark of a laugh. “Don’t _hold_ it. Breathe. And with that breath, feel all impurity leave you.”

The hunter swept a hand across their forehead and leaned forward as they exhaled. “Thank you.”

“The thanks are appreciated but unnecessary,” he replied, and he squeezed their shoulder. “The confederates of the League will always have my blessing. And each other. Always.”

His hand dropped to rest at his side and the hunter felt an avaricious emptiness. Even the faint touch of gloved fingers over their leather coat had soothed them, and it surprised them how desperately they wanted his hand to return.

They knew it would be wrong to ask too much of his already exceptional hospitality. Aside from that, it would be uncouth to ask the Master of their League for— for what, exactly? A hug? The thought was absurd. Their nails dug into the crumbling mortar between the stones they sat on. The same feeling of being unmoored that had brought them to him in the first place came flowing back.

The silver light of the moon fell upon everything. That silver was merely the shining surface gleam of a deeper, wet red. The red churned. 

“Again,” Valtr commanded, the low tones of his voice cutting through the crimson-hued haze. Praise be to the many crawling Gods of the city, dead or otherwise— his hand lifted and he slammed his palm against their back. All of the hunter’s attention was on that touch. “Breathe deep again.”

They did so. The hunter was seeing blood where there was none, vermin where there was none, but as they inhaled, exhaled, the world returned to what little sense it had left.

Valtr’s hand pressed small, soothing circles against their back. The hunter felt tightly-wound tension dissolve beneath his touch. With a quiet, huffed laugh he patted them once, twice, but then instead of pulling away he let his hand remain resting flat against their spine, steadying them. “Excellently done, my hunter.”

“Thank you,” they echoed, their voice shaking slightly.

Valtr made a low, affirmative hum. The nape of the hunter’s neck prickled.

The hunter craved warmth, craved contact, but the touch upon their back seemed a delicate and tenuous thing. The urge gripped them to lean into his side, to grasp at the deep blue fabric of his cape, but they resisted. They stayed perfectly still. So did Valtr. The faint warmth of his touch anchored them.

Time passed in the peculiar way it was forced to during the hunt; the hours dragged in a way that implied that they were more than the sum of their minutes. But the hunter had been sitting for long enough that their legs felt stiff and their spine popped as they stretched. Valtr’s hand slipped to the small of their back as they leaned forward.

The touch was still comforting but the hunter had the sudden vision of his hand trailing down, cupping at the fabric of their trousers, at their rear, then dipping further and— 

And disassembling them in great ribbons of viscera, his favored spinning blade held against their abdomen. The hunter squeezed their eyes shut and followed his instructions before he could bark them once more. Breathe in, out. The abrupt and contradictory vision faded.

“Back into the wretched world with you,” Valtr said, “if you feel you’ve recovered. Go scour the filth and revel in the cleansing. And try, with every vermin, to repeat our little exercise,” he added. “Drive the blasted thing beneath your heel and breathe deep to triumph over it. That will steady you. But if the need for respite strikes you again, you are always welcome here.”

They nodded once. Valtr lifted his staff in salute. The hunter returned to the hunt, pulled out like the tide.

* * *

They did return, several times— and every time, the Master of the League was there to steady them; every time, his tone dropped low and he spoke of the filth of the world while his thumb idly traced along their shoulder blades; every time, hunger gnawed at them. The most daring advance they managed to make was to place their hand briefly atop his own when he gripped their shoulder, fingers clasped over fingers for no more than a breath. He had shown no response beyond his usual steadfast support.

The hunter wanted to place their hand upon his hip, to unfasten the polished buttons, to return his comfort in one of the few ways left to them. To touch skin. 

But while the hunter could boldly carve their way through the night, the idea of severing the lifeline thread of respect between themself and the Master of their League terrified them, and so they ventured no further flirtations.

* * *

Chitin had cracked beneath their heel and vermin had smeared against stone.

“You have blessed the League with your presence,” he had said, and one hand had clamped upon their shoulder, commending them. “This was my last, most pressing task.” He had let out a low, halting chuckle. “When you next return, you will find my title bequeathed.”

The hunter had stared at him. 

“My confederate,” he had continued, his voice the calmest it had ever been. “Promise me you’ll crush all vermin, to rid us of our impurities. For the sake of our fellows, all blood-stained hunters of the League.”

“Is this a farewell?” the hunter had asked flatly.

“Never,” he had said with a squeeze of their shoulder. “Not for as long as any heart within the League beats. Not for as long as any foul blood flows freely.”

When his hand had lowered, it certainly felt like a farewell.

Members of the League were already near jubilant in their pursuit of the hunt, but to overcome the hurdle of propriety and pull him into an embrace, to feel solid cloth and skin and flesh beneath their hands, to exult in this final declaration of their closeness— 

It had been too much. They had left unceremoniously.

The hunter shrugged the memory off and stared down at the helmet the former Master of the League had left behind. It sat empty on the grimy ground. They picked it up and ran their sleeve around the bottom rim to remove any remnant dirt.

They could not bring themself to wear it. The hunter cut through the hissing shadows between the trees and the night went on but they did not see Valtr.

* * *

The hunter dug their fingers against the sight of tiny, crawling legs beneath their skin. Blood swelled beneath their nails. They breathed in, out. The vision relented. Their lungs rattled.

The empty eye of the helm stared impassively.

They had a sinking suspicion that Valtr had misjudged them.

* * *

The hunter hated the nightmare. The longer they stayed there, the more they felt as if their adrenaline would calcify in their veins as a permanent, frantic sting— that they would join the ranks of the blood-drunk and succumb to the eternal hunt. When they looked out at the river of blood rent crimson through the landscape, their mouth watered. 

They traveled upstream, their boots sloshing through the red slurry, but they paused when they heard quiet muttering. The hunter stared down at a cluster of messengers and wiped sweat from their forehead. The little creatures could slip between dreams and the waking world without issue, and in some rare cases they seemed to hold a strange resonance, a wispy red trail that weaved through space and time to bring people forth. The people could be alive, dead, sane, mad, human, beast, or otherwise in the hunter’s world, but whatever the messengers did called in an echo of that person in their prime.

 _Valtr, the Beast Eater_ , the messengers intoned, with their small and spindly hands clasped around a silver bell.

The hunter chewed at the interior of their cheek.

If they were to call him here, who exactly would they be meeting? The famed young Valtr of years past, or the ex-Master of the League?

And if it were the latter, how would he recognize them? By the contour of their shoulder, perhaps, they thought with a bitter, hopeless humor. Their manner of dress had changed, especially after a particularly seam-ripping encounter where one of those singing creatures had latched onto them and nearly bitten their head off. The cloth folded atop their face hid most of their identity otherwise, and they had never been the talkative sort. They far preferred just listening to him.

But Valtr had respected them enough before to— 

Right. That venerable bucket.

The pleasant chime of the bell echoed through the humid air. The hunter held the helm emblematic of the League in their arms.

The ring dissipated and a form solidified before them. The familiar garb was there, all stark blue and gold, but the face— they stared at him openly. Dull blonde hair hung to his shoulders. Unshaven stubble swept along his jaw. There was a hint of age to the lines around his mouth that was thrown into deeper relief as his lips parted and curved into a grin. The hunter lifted their gaze to his pale blue eyes that gleamed with the same ardent energy he had always imparted with his speech.

He recognized them.

The hunter had little inhibition left. They set the helm upon a stone and strode towards him. To their relief, when they wrapped their arms around his chest, he was solid and warm. They pressed their face into his neck. The low, rough chuckle he let out in response was like a balm to their nerves. Valtr returned the embrace and his palms slid against the slick bloodstains coating their jacket. The hunter took a deep, shuddering breath. Hunger gnawed.

“My new Master of the League,” he said with a laugh, “we meet once more. Shall we hunt? This place is _rank_ with vermin, I am sure of it. Will we cleanse the streets together?”

“I think,” they murmured against his neck, “that I am the one in need of cleansing.”

His posture shifted; stubble scraped against the hunter’s cheek. He pushed at their shoulders, breaking the embrace, before peering down at them.

“All vermin are to be crushed, for they are the root of man’s impurity,” the hunter recited. “I am impure. I must be.”

“And what makes you say that?” he asked.

“I can see them, feel them. Vermin. In me. I do not think I am fit to lead the League. Not in this state.”

The hunter expected him to react as if their confession was a betrayal, but his grin only widened. 

The hunter grasped at his coat. “And I…” 

The next admission was caught in their throat. The fabric twisted in their grip. When they looked at the skin of his neck their mouth twinged.

“And you?” Valtr asked.

“I think they have fouled my blood because it was my impure thoughts that invited them in,” they said. 

“Impure thoughts,” he repeated. “Explain.”

They forced their hands to relinquish their grip on his coat and they splayed their fingers wide across his chest. “I… missed you. Far too much to try and fill your role.”

“I see.” He squeezed their shoulder. “If I tell you that when I look at you, I see no vermin, would you believe me?”

The hunter did not respond.

He leaned forward and the corners of his eyes crinkled with his smile. “Would you like for me to take a closer look? How close would comfort you?”

The hunter wanted to kiss him. The hunter wanted the blunt metal mace-handle he carried to drive through their gut and root out all impurity. The hunter considered the fact that they _wanted_ to be the problem.

The hunter closed their eyes. “I am asking too much of you.”

“When I said we confederates will always have each other, I meant it,” he said. “And you were able to bring me here because I remain sympathetic to your cause— because it is _our_ cause. And now, here we are,” he said with loud conviction, and he waved an arm widely at the nightmare surrounding them. “Deep within the filth that varnishes the world of man. Together. So, my dear new Master of the League— let me assist you.” 

He brought his face close and the hunter was stunned into stillness. He tugged down the cloth that covered their mouth and his head tilted. His lips pressed firmly against theirs. His hand dropped to their hip and eased them forward, bringing them flush against his front.

Teeth dragged against their bottom lip and Valtr drew back. The grin grew lopsided. “I _do_ hope that was what you were angling for,” he said with a huffed laugh.

The hunter grabbed at his shoulders and pushed their mouth against his. After a long, sweet while, his thumb dug against their hipbone and steered them against the crumbling stone hill. Their back slammed into rock and they gasped.

“Now, to assuage your fears,” Valtr said as his hand slid up their ribs, pulling at their overcoat, “I will _gladly_ search you for any trace of vermin— every last dark corner of you— and if I find any, you have my oath. They will be crushed. I swear it.”

The hunter nodded fervently. They slid their arms out from their overcoat as he yanked it off. Blood had soaked past their leather and some of their skin was still slick. Valtr dragged a few gloved fingers through the mess, smearing it across their chest, before lowering his hand to grip at their belt. The hunter reached out and fumbled with the gold buttons of his coat. They pulled it apart to uncover a loose linen undershirt and just as they reached beneath that to press their hands against his chest he drove his thigh between their legs.

The hunter made a low, strangled sound as he tugged at their belt, dragging them against his leg and pulling the seam of their trousers tight against their groin. The heat that had already been building steadily within them flared.

Somewhere at the back of the hunter’s murky thoughts, they realized that their exchange was escalating quite severely right in the open, basked in the bursting yellow sunset of the nightmare. But League business had never been understood by the world, anyway, their vermin hunts dismissed as debauched madness, and so to take part in some actual debauchery gave the hunter a strange thrill.

The pressure between their legs relented and Valtr gave their belt a pointed tug. As the hunter pushed their trousers down Valtr pulled at his gloves with his teeth. The hunter found themself fixated on the gleaming white of his incisors. 

“Now,” he said as he ran his hands over the hunter’s abdomen, “I see no vermin here.” He pinched at their chest before sliding his grip to their hips and the hunter squirmed. “And none here,” he said, and his fingers trailed back and gripped at the flesh of their ass. “Where is it that worries you?”

“Inside,” they answered honestly, and when they realized the duplicity of their answer they clarified. “In— in the blood.”

“Then I will check inside, as well,” he said with a wide grin. His hand dipped between their legs and the hunter let out a long, unsteady exhale. Their thighs parted and they leaned back against stone to cant their hips upward. He stroked at them a few brief times before venturing further. The hunter gritted their teeth and held their breath. The sting relented as his finger worked further into them.

“Don’t forget to breathe,” Valtr lightly chastised.

The hunter complied and settled into the rocking of his hand.

“Now, let me give you some rare wisdom,” he said. “Man’s deeds are wretched and man is everywhere. Vermin follow in their bloody wake. If you look for them, you will find them. _Anywhere_. Let me emphasize this: to find them, you need only look. And as the new Master of the League, you _will_ find vermin, even in places that others may not. Sometimes the sight of— of even the most dedicated confederate in your care will not see what man’s depravity has wrought.”

The hunter gave him a puzzled look that melted away when his finger crooked inside them.

“And once you find them, you must of course be rid of them,” he continued. “To crush them is your duty as the head of the League.”

“I know this,” the hunter managed to say. “And I will— I will.”

He let out a sigh that seemed uncharacteristically tired. “What I am saying is to take care where you look.”

The hunter wished to respond but a second finger crammed inside and scissored them wide. They writhed against his hand.

He leaned in close as he worked them and the hunter pressed their mouth to his neck, dragging teeth over skin, feeling the thrum of his pulse against their tongue. He let out a low and appreciative sound just before withdrawing his hand. The hunter would have felt disappointed at the emptiness but they saw him unfasten the button of his trousers and pull himself free. Wiry blonde hair trailed down his gut and the hunter spotted a few faint scars torn across his hip. He took his cock into his hand and gave a few quick pumps before lining himself up with the hunter’s entrance.

He pushed inside and they nearly yowled. The heat and the stretch and the _closeness_ burned exquisitely. They grasped at him and clenched their thighs around his sides.

“Ah, there you are,” he breathed as he leaned over them, dropping his mouth to the hunter’s shoulder. “Right here. Vermin. Must be.”

His teeth dug into their shoulder, the bite causing a bright, tight pain. His hips snapped up against them. His fingers gripped harshly at their sides. The hunter cried out. His teeth shifted against their flesh, tearing at the skin, and the hunter felt hot blood streaming beneath his mouth.

They let out a choked moan as his pace quickened, the impact of his hips driving them back against the crumbling stone. His incisors snagged on muscle. The pain only pooled as pleasure in their gut.

Valtr drew back, his face smeared with blood, and he clicked his teeth together as he grinned. His hips slowed, the thrusts growing almost lazy as he peered down at them. “Crushed to bits,” he said happily. “I’m sure of it.”

Perhaps there _were_ insectile parts strewn in the spat blood foaming on the rocks. They hoped so, in any case. But the hunter was nowhere near coherency, and so they did not respond. Red trickled down their chest as they tried to contend with even the slowed impacts between their legs. They craned their neck, stretching out the unmarred shoulder, as if begging him to do it again.

He gladly obliged. Pain bloomed across their neck as he bit into them. His fingers dug into their hips hard enough to bruise. The hunter wound one hand into his hair while the other scraped at his back, nails scratching ragged lines in an attempt to drive him back to a faster pace. He didn't need much encouragement; his hips returned to smacking against their thighs.

Blood slicked hot along their shoulders. The pain hit a peak when they realized he had _chewed_ at them, skin trapped between his molars, blood flowing freely— and still his cock pounded into them relentlessly, bolstering their impending orgasm— 

They clenched around him and inhaled sharply. Their back arched against rough stone. His mouth slid down their neck to worry a new patch of skin. Heat lapped up their core and their vision swam with the final sweet wave.

Valtr’s pace grew more erratic and his breath huffed against wet blood. “My dear hunter— my new Master of the League— I do hope you feel— rightly _deterged_ ,” he said with a wild laugh. “Expunged of all foul vermin and made bright again!”

His voice dropped to a low, halting gasp, and the hunter felt him slip out and cum against their thigh. As his wound-up tension relented he slumped against them, catching his breath between a few more chuckles.

The hunter wrapped their arms around him and held him close, heedless of the still-flowing blood staining his undershirt. The simple sensation of him breathing against them had them feeling the most stable they had been in— in, well, some unparseable span of time.  
  
But, as the remnant haze of pleasure faded, the rocks grinding into their back grew bothersome, and they clapped their palm against his back. "Thank you," they said simply. "I _do_ feel better. Let's hunt."

That brought the fire right back into his softened, almost gentle expression; his eyes shone with excitement. "Perfect," he replied as he tucked himself away. " _Perfect._ I must tell you—there is one of our brethren,” he explained with a quick wave up the river of viscera, “trapped within a cell, left behind for time uncountable. I would like to see if he yet lives, with sense or without. A great and terrible beast blocks the way, as I’m sure you’ve discovered.”

The hunter gathered their gear as he spoke. They pulled on their overcoat and glanced at the iron helm resting upon the ground. "I see," they replied. "Then we should do everything in our power to retrieve him."

They took a deep breath, picked up the helm, and lowered it over their head. The hunter peered out at Valtr through the single eyehole.

Valtr's face was still smeared with their blood as he grinned at them. "Let us put this infested corruption to rest. Together."

"Together," the hunter replied with a nod. "For our League."

"For our League," he echoed, and his hand clamped appreciatively upon their shoulder.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> “ow,” the hunter said from beneath the bucket, for he had grabbed a spot that he had previously chomped.
> 
> title essentially means "to want, to lack"
> 
> (thinks about how valtr no longer sees vermin) (thinks about how valtr no longer sees vermin)(thinks about how--  
> "but since this is just time echo summoned valtr where the hell is he actually" let's not worry about that
> 
> i'm pretty indebted to the other excellent hunter/valtr fics already out there so. big shoutout to those
> 
> as always i hope you enjoyed and thank you for reading!


End file.
